Black, my World if You're Not There
by MasterCroissant
Summary: Pre-Enjolras and Grantaire death. K for character deaths. Thank you, Riggy, for the editing. c:


This had seemed like the most organized plan that anyone could have ever come up with. They were to stand atop the Barricade, and, with their stolen weapons, shoot at the oncoming policemen. However, all did not go as planned. Already, Grantaire could see that most of his friends were dead. Éponine was long gone, shot for Marius. Where was Marius? No one had seen him since just a few moments after that. Even the little eight year old, Gavroche, was dead. He had such a life ahead of him, and they took it away. Had they no morals? This was worst case scenario, and it was one thing that Enjolras had never planned for.

The explosion of their barricade had thrown Grantaire a good few feet away, and knocked him unconscious, successfully guarding him from being shot by another French soldier. However, when he woke up, it took at least ten minutes to realize where he was and what had happened. The barricade had fallen, and they had gotten past. Les Amis de l'ABC had been torn apart, for the most part. With this realization, Grantaire forced himself to stand in search of his fellow friends, wondering what on earth could have possibly happened when he was out. It seemed the impossible had. And it also seemed a bit more organized than he would have expected, aside from the fact that there were pieces of furniture and wood scattered across the cobblestone. He hobbled off, wondering where his comrades were. It didn't take him long to come across a small, stone building in which he could see the dead bodies lined up.

Grantaire hardly dared to take a peek at who was laying there. He came across Prouvaire, darling Éponine, daring Gavroche, and a few others that he knew. He sat on his knees and cried for the lost, little soldier. He was thankful that his lover was nowhere to be seen in this dreadful lineup. However, he was nowhere to be seen in general. This made his heart plummet. Where could he be if he was not here? What if his body had been dumped elsewhere, not respected and put in this lineup to mourn. That thought made him want to vomit. And where was Marius? He certainly was not here, either, and certainly was nowhere else to be found. Did he get shot? He tried thinking back, brows furrowed. He could hardly remember where he had last seen Marius. He stood and limped back out to the barricade, looking it over with regret. Why did they do this?

Grantaire wanted to weep for all that he had lost in one single day. All of his friends, his secret organization, and possibly his lover. They had been secretive, too, only kissing behind closed doors, whispering sweet nothings into each other's ears when they could. They admired each other, and that was something that Grantaire had never had before. Grantaire licked his dry lips with his dry tongue, having trouble walking over the uneven ground. It was eerily silent, but he knew something was wrong. Where were the soldiers? Why did they leave so suddenly if not everyone was dead?

He spotted a red flag on the ground and walked to it, before kneeling beside it and picking it up, stroking the used fabric in his hands. It did not feel like freedom. It felt like the cause of many deaths, and it felt like a foolish rebellion that was horribly played by schoolboys in an attempt to gain some sort of freedom, similar to the revolution that was only years ago. As far as Grantaire was now concerned, red was not only the blood of angry men, but the blood of the lost men (and woman) of this travesty. He picked up the flag and continued to walk along with difficulty, wondering what else he could find. He picked up one of the pins, running his fingers over that, too. The fabric was burnt and torn, and yet, still felt like brand new. This didn't feel like it should, but only like, again, a petty rebellion that went horribly wrong.

The brunette continued, past the pin, past the flag, and onto the main building, where there barricade was centered in. He walked inside quietly, looking at the scattered tables and chairs, which were either strewn across the floor, or completely pulled apart. Chair and table legs littered the room, and even some broke glass from the bar. He walked to the bar, for any sign that one of his friends had been in here, or was hiding in here, waiting for rescue. When there was nothing, he walked around to the back, fingers skimming against the smooth, cool bar top. There was no blood there, at least, but in the back, there was wine bottles that were broken, the red wines dripping onto the ground and forming little puddles. Leaning down, Grantaire picked up a small spoon he had spotted and looked at his distorted reflection on the back of the spoon. He studied his bloodied face and sighed, brows furrowing. Grantaire licked his finger and moved it to the bit of dried blood on his forehead, where he wiped it off. Red, the blood of lonely men, more like.

He tossed the spoon aside and listened for the small 'ding' that would resound off the hard wood. He studied himself more than he would have liked to admit, and also noticed that his hair had curled tightly over the years, while Enjolras' seemed to be the one with the wavy hair, now. Suddenly, he heard stomping upstairs that pulled him out of his thoughts. Who was up there? Marius? Enjolras? Anyone? Grantaire looked towards the staircase with a horrid feeling in his gut, but continued anyways. Anyone but the military, he thought to himself, anyone but the military.

When he finally managed to get up, his eyes widened and watered. "Enjolras," he whispered, and that was who it was, surrounded by seven or eight military personnel. They all turned to look at him, and for a moment, all he saw was red, gold, and blue. He pushed past, limping over to Enjolras with tears in his eyes. Enjolras looked back understandingly, as if he had accepted this fate long ago. Behind him was the balcony that held nearly nothing up. It had no support, and it was further ruined by the explosion. In this very room, was where they used to meet, where Les Amis de l'ABC started. The feeling of nostalgia and loss was high. They looked at each other once more, and a tacit 'I love you' was shared between them. Grantaire nodded, and Enjolras knew just what to do.

He thrust his arm upwards, the one that had been clutching a red flag. Enjolras and Grantaire lifted their heads in the last motion of defiance, before the shots rang out.


End file.
